


Intimate Friends

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (Movie 1952)
Genre: Bargaining, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: “I am offering you an opportunity,” said Javert, his voice low. “Wouldn’t you like to protect your accomplice, prisoner?”Before the trial in Arras, Valjean realises that Javert knows even more than he suspected. Just how far will he go to keep Robert safe?
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean, Robert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14
Collections: Recs from the Watchalong Room, Yuletide 2020





	Intimate Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Valjean offering sexual favours to protect Robert is a good prompt and I hope I’ve done it justice. Happy Yuletide and I hope next year is filled with fictional sadness and real-life happiness!

Javert was in his kitchen. Jean Valjean ought to have been surprised at the sight, but in truth he was not. From the moment Javert had taken a seat across from him at the cafe, a part of him had known that it would end like this. There were plans in place, of course. Money that could be moved and provisions that could be made. Still, he had believed there was still time to repair things.

It seemed that he was wrong. There was no time left.

Javert was in his kitchen, sitting at his table, Valjean’s papers spread out before him. He looked up as Valjean approached and smiled. It was not a comforting smile.

“Do you know,” said Javert, eyeing Valjean thoughtfully, “I would not have thought a man like you could still surprise me. A lifetime in the gutter, surrounded by the likes of you, and still I can be astonished. I ought to thank you.”

Valjean stood frozen for a moment, old instincts locking him into place at the voice of authority. And then another, deeper impulse ignited within him. He half turned, reaching for the door handle. He was not yet certain where he might flee — he did not have a plan, but that was an old instinct too. All he knew was that he must be elsewhere.

His step was interrupted by a harsh laugh.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Wait and listen to what I have to say first.”

Valjean froze. He turned to face Javert and moved to the table, eyes moving about the room. The curtains were drawn, he observed with relief. But his drawers were open and the chest he kept beneath his bed had been pulled out and gutted.

“Don’t worry, your papers are in perfect order,” said Javert cordially. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Valjean nodded, numbly pulling the wooden chair out from under the table and lowering himself. The papers spread out before him spelled out his past and present. In a way, they spelled out his future just as plainly.

“What do you want?” he asked, half resigned and still half perplexed. Javert held all the cards in this. If Javert had ever been any doubt as to his identity, there was not a sliver of doubt left. No ambiguity to hide behind. If there had ever been a Monsieur Madeleine, that man was long gone.

But then, surely Javert had never been taken in. Valjean had seen the way Javert watched him. He had heard the way Javert had turned his false name over and over, placing the emphasis on different syllables, like a man testing a chain for weak links. And he had seen the way Javert had watched him, his eyes lingering on his lips.

The galleys had been a long time ago, and Valjean had not forgotten Javert. But then, perhaps one prisoner was much like another to Javert. Perhaps one mouth was no different from the next.

“Two chairs,” said Javert lightly, intruding on his thoughts. “Not so unusual for a man who lives alone, even a mayor. I wondered at it, I will admit, but I thought, ‘why shouldn’t a businessman have a second chair?’ Perhaps it’s unusual in a man who guards his privacy so closely. I’d venture a guess that very few people have visited your home, Monsieur, let alone sat in that chair. But even so, I thought to myself. There is no harm in a man owning two chairs.”

“You were going to the trial,” said Valjean. “You were going to testify.” There was time — or at least, there had been time, just a few short hours ago. He had arrangements to make.

“And I still will. The law calls upon its servant and I will be loyal. My question is, will you?” Javert cast an assessing eye over Valjean. “I misjudged you, Monsieur. I imagined your only interest was in money and power. But I was wrong, was I not?”

Valjean tensed. A slow smile spread across Javert’s face.

“Yes, I did not know the half of it. But there’s no need to fret, Monsieur.” He reached across, patting Valjean’s knee, his hand heavy and posessive and not comforting at all. “It will all be out in the open soon.”

“Javert, I have no idea what you’re—”

“What does he call you?” asked Javert. “Madeleine or Valjean? If he knows you intimately, surely he calls you by your true name.”

Valjean lowered his eyes, heavy with defeat. “He knows me as Madeleine,” he said. “That is my name as far as the town is concerned, and perhaps it is how he thinks of me. But in private he calls me Jean.”

“Jean,” Javert repeated softly. There was mockery in his tone, but something else as well. His lip curled. “Would you like me to call you Jean, Monsieur? It is your name, after all. Neither of us can deny it.”

“No,” Valjean said.

A sharp, cruel laugh. “Then I will call you my prisoner. How do you like that?”

Valjean could not deny it. Javert laughed again, his large hand coming up to take hold of Valjean’s cravat.

“Yes, I believe that suits you very well. There will be no ‘Jean’ any more. Not in this room.”

There was not much to say to that. Valjean nodded. “What do you want, Javert?”

“It is not a question of what I want. I am here for your benefit.” Javert smiled. His grip did not loosen, and he tugged on Valjean’s cravat, pulling him closer. “Did you realise what you were doing to your poor friend? When you pulled him into this deception of yours?”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think. No, a man like you does not think.”

It was not true. In fact, it was all that Valjean had thought about, from the first day that he and Robert had gone into business together. He had looked at the two signatures, printed side by side on the contract, and he had known from the beginning that they spelt doom. He had resisted. For years, he had held himself apart. When Robert locked his hand with Valjean’s after too many glasses of wine, Valjean had withdrawn, his mind echoing with chains and the lash and the crashing of waves.

What would Robert want with a man like Valjean? Whatever he thought he had seen in those collar marks, he had not seen the truth of it.

But Robert had persisted. He had been steadfast throughout their years together. He had seen the collar marks and seen his papers and still he had remained. He had clasped Valjean’s hands in the darkness and held him fast. He had kissed Valjean’s hands and watched him with a steady devotion. He had lain side-by-side on Valjean’s narrow bed, the town springing up around them, and promised that he would never see anything but the man before him. And if he was not the first man to ever touch Valjean, he was surely the first man who had ever loved him. Better than anything Valjean could have hoped for.

“You have made him a criminal,” said Javert, as easily as he might have observed that the rains had come early or that the butcher’s dog was out of temper. “Is that how you hoped to reward him for his loyalty?”

Valjean lowered his eyes. “I never wished to involve him in any of this.”

“But you did,” said Javert. His other hand tilted Valjean’s chin up to meet his eyes. “It is not so difficult for a man to set himself apart, you know. The bonds of friendship, family — even love, if you can call it such a thing — are not so tight as men tell themselves. There is no decency in your kind, though. You will always insist on drawing honest men into your depravity.”

Valjean closed his eyes. Javert’s hand was firm on the cravat and there was no denying his words.

“Tell me what you’re after,” he said.

“I am offering you an opportunity,” said Javert, his voice low. “Wouldn’t you like to protect your accomplice, prisoner?”

So there it was. An unhappy laugh rose within Valjean, shaking his chest. Javert was right: The galleys were never so far from the surface. With only a few words, Javert had dragged him back to the guards’ rooms.

“Yes, I thought you’d remember that,” said Javert. His thumb traced the line of Valjean’s jaw. “You were good at it, from what I remember.”

Had he been good at it? Those days were a blur. He supposed he had been serviceable enough at any physical task he was given, whether he was heaving an oar or hoisting sails or putting his mouth to work. Genflou had never complained, but his praise had been evasive and half-ironic. He had spoken to Javert in the same cajoling tone when he hoped to convince him of something. And the guards? Well.

None of them had ever so much as glanced at him afterwards. None of them had kissed his mouth as though he had offered them something they could not find anywhere else. None of them had touched him with large, reverent hands or whispered his name as they arched upwards into his hand. They did not linger afterwards or fetch him coffee or lean against his wall or laugh at the worst of times or stand ready to speak on his behalf at any moment.

No, it seemed the only man who cared for him was the one he was destined to betray. Valjean’s hands were shaking.

“Get up, then,” he said, nodding at the wall. That was how it was in the galleys: The guards would stand and the prisoner would kneel.

Javert looked at him with some interest, but he didn’t move. “You’re in no position to dictate terms to me.”

“I will do it,” said Valjean. “But not here.” Not at this table, where Robert had watched him with amusement over coffee so many mornings. Where they had sketched out the plans to rebuild the pottery. Where Valjean had allowed Robert to touch the back of his hand, heedless of the marks on his wrists, and Robert had first allowed his leg to lie full flush against Valjean’s without either of them pulling away. Not here.

But Javert only smiled. “Upstairs, then? On your bed?”

“No,” Valjean bit out. “Javert, please.”

Javert’s smile was almost indulgent. “I will make it easier for you then, prisoner.” He tightened his fist around Valjean’s cravat and pulled sharply, dragging him to his knees. Valjean followed, half moving of his own accord and half allowing himself to be pulled, until he was kneeling beside Javert’s chair. 

“You’re out of the habit,” Javert observed mildly. His free hand touched Valjean’s hair, stroking offhandedly. “Too long playing the gentleman, I think. You’ve fooled yourself along with the rest of them. I see now that I will have to rid you of your illusions.” 

Valjean swallowed. He watched, a sick helplessness turning within him, as Javert spread his thighs, pulling Valjean in closer. He watched his own hands move to unfasten Javert’s trousers and pull his prick free. Javert made a low sound and Valjean felt the floor rock beneath them like a ship on treacherous water. 

Not everything Javert said was true. Valjean had never allowed himself to forget the terror of the iron collar or the knowledge that his life was not his own. He had never been the comfortable magistrate the town had believed him to be. But it was true that he had allowed himself some measure of relief. And there was no denying the worst of Javert’s accusations: Valjean had relaxed into Robert’s arms, and in doing so, he had damned the only man he could trust.

He looked up, “will you promise me that he will be protected?”

Javert smiled unpleasantly. His hand moved from Valjean’s hair to touch his cheek. “Your dedication is touching. Wouldn’t you rather drag him to the galleys along with you?”

Valjean’s eyes fell closed. This was hopeless. There was no bargaining with the law, no guarantee that any good would come of it, only the certainty that resistance would make it worse. And even if he himself deserved worse, he could not allow it for Robert.

“Come along,” said Javert, his tone impatient now. “You are wasting my time. Show me how well he taught you and we shall see whether you can earn him a reprieve, shall we?”

“You are not a liar,” said Valjean, partly for his own assurance and partly to hold Javert to his word. He did not wait for Javert’s agreement. Instead he bent his head to the task. Javert let out a shocked groan, his hand fisting in Valjean’s hair.

It was true that Valjean was more skilled now than he had been in the galleys. In prison he had learned to let his mouth go slack and allow himself to be used. The law made a tool of his mouth, just as it had used the rest of his body. It had no use for his mind, no regard for skill or thought.

Robert had taught him, through encouragement and example, to be aware of the man before him. To see this not as a task to be completed but an act of gratitude and love. When he went to his knees for Robert, he did so joyfully, alert to Robert’s low, appreciative groans and hitching breath. Now, as Javert pulled him closer, he could only close his eyes and try to imagine Robert’s hand in his hair and Robert’s stiff prick bumping against his lips. When he bent his head, it was for Robert. When he tasted skin and sweat and salt, it was for Robert.

Javert shuddered under his mouth, hissing as Valjean’s lips closed around him. Valjean squeezed his eyes closed, trying to take in more, faster, to put a quick end to this. But Javert’s hand tightened in his hair.

“Don’t forget,” he said, “I expect you to make it good for me.”

Valjean swallowed. It had not been like this in the galleys. The convict did not set the pace, he merely knelt and waited until the guards had done with him. Here, in the privacy of his kitchen, with no sound between them but Javert’s heavy breaths, there was a curious intimacy. It was not so difficult to pretend that things were different between them.

He pulled his mouth off Javert’s prick, drawing a shuddering breath. Javert’s hand tightened warily but his grip loosened as Valjean pressed open-mouthed kisses to the base of it, moving lower to tease at his balls before licking his way back up in long, wet stripes. He kept his eyes shut, trying to remember the way Robert had looked, that first time Valjean had realised he could offer this. The way Robert had watched him with undisguised admiration, the way his hand had caressed Valjean’s cheek and lips, and afterwards he had pulled Valjean up and kissed him and kissed him until Valjean had almost forgotten what it meant to be himself.

“Six years,” Robert had said, his voice low and pleased. “Six years and well worth the wait.”

A sharp pain as Javert’s hand tightened. A gasp in the quiet room as Javert thrust upwards and Valjean’s throat convulsed around him. Tears pricked at the corner of Valjean’s eyes and Javert’s thumb found them, smeared them across a cheekbone.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said and Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, a sob shuddering through him. Javert’s hand gentled against his cheek in a mockery of a caress, but there was something unsteady in the touch. He thrust upwards again, his prick blunt and fast at the back of Valjean’s throat. But his hand did not grip. His thumb was gentle as he traced Valjean’s stretched lips.

“Jean,” he said, voice low and troubled. He exhaled shakily, as though he had reached for cruelty and found instead… this. His hand cradled Valjean’s jaw, angling his mouth as he thrust upwards once again. Jean, he said. And again. And then it was ending and Javert was shuddering, filling his mouth and throat. Valjean was drowning and there was that name again, echoing around the room as the walls crashed down around him. Jean. Javert’s voice was ragged. Ruined as the two of them. The three of them. Jean.

Javert sat backwards in Robert’s chair, his eyes half-lidded. Valjean shifted, an ache spreading in his knees. The name hung in the air between them, filling up the room whether either of them wished to hear it or not. After a long moment, Javert laughed unpleasantly and began to redress himself.

“Javert,” said Valjean. He meant to offer something — a word of comfort, perhaps, or even forgiveness. But he felt hollowed out. He watched unhappily as Javert made himself tidy. After a moment Javert rose to his feet but did not move any further. It was as though he could not bring himself to leave but would not allow himself to stay.

“We can find another way,” Valjean heard himself say. But even as he spoke the words, he knew them for a lie. Even as he knelt in his home, whatever remained of it, he knew that a collar was being forged and manacles prepared for an innocent man. Wherever became of Javert and Robert and his own poor heart, his road would end in Arras.

Javert gave a short, furious laugh. His hand balled into a fist at his side. “There is no other way. That is the trouble with the likes of you, you think you can bargain and cajole your way to what you want. There is always a price for it.” He looked down, perhaps at Valjean or perhaps at himself. Whatever he saw, his disgust was evident. “Well, I have learned my lesson. It is well to remind yourself of your own shortcomings.”

He took a faltering step towards the kitchen door. Valjean watched, distantly aware that his hands were shaking. “Javert,” he said again, and this time Javert stopped. Turned. He regarded Valjean with the hollow-eyed expression of one who has opened another man’s ledger and found his own accounts in black and white. “What about Robert?”

“Robert. Jean. We are all such good friends in this town, are we not?” A sharp, bitter laugh. Something sparked in Javert’s eyes, and for a moment he was something else entirely — neither the shattered figure who had paused in the doorway nor the officer of the law who had smiled at Valjean from across the table. But then Javert straightened his shoulders and appeared to recover himself. “What shall we do about a criminal accomplice? What indeed?”

Valjean sighed, his heart sinking. This had always been a risk, he knew. There was no guarantee that Javert would show him mercy, no matter what he offered.

“You were right, Valjean. I am a man of my word. But I am the servant of the law, and the law will have what is hers.” Javert smiled. “Fortunately you know what will happen in the coming days. That potter of yours will have a head start if you advise him to use it. More than enough time to make himself scarce. The law will have other priorities and he won’t be missed.”

Valjean bowed his head, swallowed up with something that was not quite fury and not quite gratitude. Javert stared at him for a long moment then turned and abruptly left, leaving Valjean alone with the ghost of a kind touch and his name echoing in the silent room.


End file.
